Blue sweater
by OtterAndTerrier
Summary: Hermione gets a sweater for Christmas. Not any sweater. A blue sweater. A Weasley sweater.


A/N: I came up with this after getting a really warm green sweater that reminded me of a Weasley sweater. And so I started writing.  
It's just a short story about the true, undeniable love two people feel for each other, and how there is something lingering through the years.  
Hope you enjoy it, and leave some review if you have time ;)  
I want to credit exartemarte at LiveJournal, because he's been an amazing beta and given valuable suggestions ^-^

**Disclaimer: The characters and situations belong to JK Rowling and I'm not makig money with this.**

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**Blue sweater**

A blue sweater.

There was a misshapen parcel for me at the foot of my bed. 'Mrs and Mr Weasley', it read. I was partly confused, but also incredibly fond of them in that moment. Didn't they know that the reason why I had not visited them for the holidays this year was because I could not stay under the same roof as their youngest son? Didn't they know that he had hurt me as I didn't remember being hurt before? No, of course they didn't know that.

And yet, there was a present from them, with my name, at the foot of my bed. I was confused at the same time because I usually got sweets from Mrs Weasley. Thank goodness those sweets never passed under my parents' noses: their daughter stuffing her mouth with sugar laden foods would have been a torture for a couple of dentists. But this time, it was a misshapen parcel.

A blue sweater. A Weasley sweater.

Why right this year? I felt like they were sort of including me into their family with that gesture. Harry had always got Weasley sweaters for Christmas: he loved them more than Molly's own children did, because he had never had something like that, made with motherly love, before. But me, I had never had the honour of getting a Weasley sweater. Not until this Christmas. When I'm not visiting them, when I wanted to forget about the Weasleys name because of their youngest son.

I wear it. It's a bit big for me.

My Mum asks who gave me such a cosy sweater; I say it's a friend's. It is: what else could I say?

I wear it during the holidays of our sixth year and I cry at night. Because it's blue. Like the ocean, blue. And I miss not feeling angry when I look into the ocean of his eyes.

Ron almost dies. I visit his sick bed at the hospital, and shed a tear or two, or many, when nobody can see me. I'm wearing the blue sweater when he opens his eyes, conscious for the first time. Harry is not there. He looks at me, embarrassed, almost like apologizing for being a prat. He tries to speak but doesn't know what to say.

I say I'm going to get Madam Pomfrey and leave. I smile to myself.

Lavender makes a fuss because invisible Harry is the only thing between Ron and me coming out of the boys' dormitory. And she cannot see Harry. She breaks up with Ron. What was she thinking I would be doing with Ron, for goodness' sake? She has a very dirty mind, it even makes me blush a little. After the screaming scene, we lost track of Harry. Back in the Common Room, Ron sits on the floor, in front of the empty fireplace. I notice he doesn't look sad. I sit on the couch behind him and ask if he's okay.

'Is that a Weasley sweater?' he asks as if nothing had happened, turning round.

'Your mum gave it to me last Christmas,' I say, perhaps a little too defensive.

'That's unfair: you got a cool colour,' he complains. 'Care to swap for a maroon one?'

I kindly refuse his offer. I wouldn't swap even if his was a sweater made of gold, but I keep that to myself.

He grumbles.

I'm packing. We need the essentials for a journey, a journey from which there might be no return. I pick the laundry and Ron catches a glimpse of my blue sweater.

'Are you taking that with you?'

I nod. I wouldn't travel without a good sweater, I say.

'Mum, why have you made Hermione's a nice colour? Mine are always the same!' he says to Molly.

I smile at her, as if thank her once again for the present.

'Blue suits her. It's the colour of intelligence.'

'Maroon doesn't suit me!'

Molly keeps humming and gets back to work.

I think intelligence is the least meaning in my blue sweater.

My body aches. I cannot stand. I cannot open my eyes. I cannot even cry. But there are arms holding me. Slim, but strong arms. And heavy breathing. They lower me onto something soft, and I feel like I'm in a cloud. Somebody takes my cold, sweaty hands and brushes the hair off my face.

'Ron,' I mumble, even before I see it is him indeed who is there. He doesn't reply. I try to sit, which I think scares him, and I'm about to fall again to the mattress. He catches me in his arms again. He's embracing me. My damaged body and the pain make my brain slower: I cannot say another word. He is clinging to the back of my sweater as if my life depended on it. My blue sweater, stained with blood, mud and Bellatrix's marks.

On a cold night, a pair of greedy, careful hands snake under my sweater. Shortly after, it falls on the floor. He definitely wants it out of the picture. We make love. For the first time.

The morning after, I slip out of a bed that is not mine. The sweater returns to its natural place, my body. I bend to kiss the sleepy figure on that single bed before I go back to work. He pulls me closer and I cannot refuse to lie with him for five more minutes.

'Still got that sweater?'

'Yes. Don't worry; we can share if you fancy it so much.'

We do. We share the sweater that night, and the next one, and the next one. He says it's got my smell impregnated on it. I say it's got the way he looks at me impregnated on it, and he laughs.

The hours go by and he doesn't return home. I'm sitting at the foot of the stairs. My food has gone cold in the kitchen. The door opens and closes when I peek out of the threshold. It's not the first time Ron has been on a mission, but it is the first time that my husband has been on mission. I'm waiting for him, hugging myself in my blue sweater.

He kisses me softly. I had fallen asleep on the sofa; the papers I uselessly tried to work on are scattered on the floor. I jump up and hug him, a little too hard.

'I'm sorry,' I apologize. 'I missed you. It's late. It's scary.'

'I didn't miss you. 'Cause I knew I was with you all the time,' he replies. It doesn't sound corny at all when he says it. He points at my sweater. His fingers run through my hair and the horror, the prospect of losing him is soothed, it's almost laughable. We share a kiss and lie on the sofa. The blue sweater stays. It deserves it.

The bump in my stomach is noticeable. With all the changes my body and my mind have gone through, Ron has been steadier than I have. He loves to kiss my belly, he loves speaking to it when I pretend to be reading, he loves to feel the faint kicks that seem to recognize him.

He holds up the blue sweater and says, 'It's almost time.'

The contractions start after a while. I'm in pain, but not that much because I took birthing classes with him. I try to stay calm and help our child to be born. My sight is blurry, but I hear the crying.

'And here is mummy,' Ron says. He kisses me repeatedly and puts our baby girl in my arms. Rose is a perfect reflection of Ron.

I decide it is time to give up the blue sweater. I wash it as usual and store it in a box containing souvenirs and memories. I don't need it anymore. Rose's eyes are a better present.


End file.
